19 December 2005

Evil the Carny

Dr. Maroon was right. I did procure a little Plutonium last month. It’s just the thing for jump starting the truck on cold days and for building small home defense tactical nukes… (“New from Ronco! Neighborhood Nuclear Superiority! It attaches to your garden hose!”)

Plutonium is not all that hard to get a hold of, one must merely travel to the nearest congregation of desperate and wild-eyed hard-men; (in my case, Ottawa) fork over some greenbacks, and walk away with any military hardware one’s heart desires.

I know a lot of us peace loving Yankees are very nervous about living next door to such a nation of slathering warmongers, but even the most troubled of us must admit that Canadian arms bazaars, Tim Horton’s and Canadian whisky rocks.

Canadian Club. It’s not just for Seals anymore!

However, it turns out that transporting Plutonium without a license across the border is illegal. It has something to do with the radioactive wasteland that is Detroit, apparently. Long story short, it seems that a lot of alphabet agencies were a tad bit miffed, and not just about my building code violations. If I didn’t want to spent the next fifty years showering with soap on a rope, I’d have to go on the lam.

Luckily, thanks to a tragic accident, I found the perfect place. It seems that Joe Bob, the corn dog maker at the carnival that one of my cousins works for, slipped and fell in the fryer. The screams and the smell of burning tattoos were horrible and apparent for miles, but in the end there was an opening in the exciting Carny career field. (In his end, as a touching carny tribute was a stick).

My cousin assured me that with my rat-like features and unibrow, I could fit right in if I got some prison tattoos and lost enough weight to get that psycho drifter look.

“Have you tried the black-tar heroin diet?” He asked. I assured him that a week of carnival food would get my weight down (intestinal parasites and what-not) or turn me into the bearded fat lady. Either way, sorted.

So that’s were I’ve been the last few weeks; wandering the country, feeding the carnival customers barely edible food and simultaneously getting rid of the tell tale radioactive waste. As a hobby, I've been rigging the rides to hurl the rider's projectile vomitus as far as possible. Personal best is 45 meters on the “Tilt-a-Whirl”, but just wait until I get my hands on the “Zipper”!

That’s when y’all better park in the cheap lot, well out of range.

UPDATE!!!! It's not our neighbors to the north that are the slathering warmongers, it's our neighbors to the south; the Texans. Personally, I never trusted Texans since they consistently beat me in drinking contests.

I apologise for any inconvenience that I've caused Mr. Martin's government, but would like to add that his lot are still probably to blame for Detroit. I've got my eyes on you, bub. Watch it!

And that's the way I likes it.